


Little Tides

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: Practical Magic (1998)
Genre: Canon Related, Family, Gen, Sisters, Yuletide 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 12:37:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13054149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: In her defence, shewascoming off of a bad break-up where her ex possessed her entire being and tried to kill her.





	Little Tides

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duckgirlie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckgirlie/gifts).



Being liked is so very far away from anything Gillian has experienced before that it takes her a couple of days to figure it out.

As a rule, she's the second most observant person in the room, after Sally. It's not a talent that has served any of them particularly well over the years. After all, knowing as a certainty one is not liked doesn't provide any solutions to the problem. That being said, it completely escapes her that the people of the Town have changed their tune so dramatically.

In her defence, she _was_ coming off of a bad break-up where her ex possessed her entire being and tried to kill her.

The day after the ordeal is over Gillian's head is a bit of a blur, but not in a pleasant, floaty way. Everything around her and within her is both not quite tangible and entirely too real. It's disconcerting, and it makes her miss the bottom stair several times going down.

Sally is the same constant force in her life, only now there are _stares_ and Sally saying things in Gillian's general direction with a determined little moue that looks entirety too protective. The girls seem to quiet down at odd times, followed by increases in energy and enthusiasm Gillian has never been aware could be possible in human children completely unaided. The Aunts just smile their little meddling smiles, all too familiar and entirely too scary.

*

The second day dawns sunny, which is not what tips her off.

Where mornings are concerned, the Town is a good place to have one. Gillian has never thought differently in all her years, wherever she might have ended up along the way, and it's comforting in a way to know that the sun still shines through the windowpanes of her bedroom now as it did all those years ago when they first set foot in the Aunts' house.

Her room and Gillian's room are set up to let in light whether the Sun is going up or down. It must be some sort of magic in itself that the both of them can have bedrooms on the same floor, at the top of the staircase, with surely not enough windows to make it possible to have sunlight at dawn and dusk, and, yet, possible. Gillian has never investigated the things that were normal in their lives for fear they would go away, unexpectedly, like their parents or a fond memory one has never learnt to treasure. The House has a magic of its own, Gillian knows, and it's enough of an explanation for her.

Sunlight tickles her nose and she feels her brow sweat. Her nose isn't picking up any breakfast scents and her Sense isn't either. She might just have to be the breakfast-maker this time around, which she's happy to be this morning.

Making breakfast is a routine, and, at this, point, it's probably what she needs in her life. The routine of making a meal is comforting and something that even the most rebellious of the lot go through, regardless of anything else in their lives. Pancakes are right out because when you're not the best at flipping them, it's your job to pester the person who is into making them for you. And she knows he'll be back, because how can he stay away? Although the doubts are niggling at her that it wouldn't really surprise any of them if he were to stay away for ever. It would devastate Sally, but toast is easier to think about than what the future will bring.

Toast is easy. Toast is good. Breakfast will never be a banquet, so expectations are low.

Bread, however, is essential in making toast.

Gillian feels the House is asleep, and everyone in it. Stepping out to buy bread is normal whoever you may be. Granted, she hasn't been out of the house, unless going out into the garden counts, since her ex fell from her body in a shower of dust and dirt and mold, but everything has to start somewhere.

*

If you have to check whether buying bread is meant to be a little weird, then there's definitely _something_ weird going on. Gillian is just not sure what exactly, but she's learnt to go with the weirdness, unless she wants the weirdness to go with her.

Initially, she thought sampling some of the hand cream was getting her followed throughout the entire store, but, unless they're employing middle-aged mothers dragging along their children to monitor potential shoplifters, something else is going on that has nothing to do with trying before buying.

Coffee before leaving the house would have been a true stroke of genius. As it stands, Gillian feels a wiggling in her fingertips, and the little boy gets distracted by something toy-shaped on a shelf, which turns the mother into the one being dragged along just enough for Gillian to get to the register, pay for her bread and hand cream, and get out.

The cashier _winks_ at her.

*

Sally is up when Gillian touches the side of their little fence. It brings a sprint in her step going up the path to the front door. Coffee scents linger on a sudden breeze and the weirdness of before evaporates like so much dust in the wind.

"Morning, Sleepy," she calls out, but can't muster anything more because Sally is pouring her coffee in Gillian's second favourite mug.

Kylie broke her favourite one just last week, but the pieces are glued to the trellis out back, tiny shards aligned next to each other like a mosaic, a little guardian against any unfriendly rose bushes that might get it into their heads to start popping up where they are neither needed nor wanted. Coffee Gillian drank as a teenager and young adult stains the parts that touch the wood. She knows it'll guard her well.

"Bread?" Sally asks with a little frown, but she's smiling her half smile of the mornings.

"Toast," Gillian says, grabbing at the mug. The first sip is entirely too sweet and exactly how she likes it.

"Huh huh. And you didn't know I'd be up by the time you got back?" Sally drinks hers black like a boring person working in an office or some such shit, but she takes marmalade on her toast and syrup on her pancakes, so Gillian forgives her for her poor taste. Heaven knows Sally has forgiven Gillian for her own poor life choices.

"Never occurred to me. I'm making the toast, so sit back and look forward to the delicious breakfast I'm about to make you." Sally leans against a counter-top and lets her get on with it, regulardly taking little sips of her boring coffee.

*

By the time the toast is ready the girls are running around the kitchen and the Aunts are sipping their own cups of coffee. It's a gorgeous Sunday, so they take it all outside. No one mentions wanting pancakes instead of toast, so that's fine.

Mid-morning they have company. In hindsight, it's quick and painless, but it leaves Gillian a tad unhinged. Unusually any weird in a space they all occupy is, well, _them_. It's entirely possible Gillian is starting to question the weird in everything now. She's unsure where that leaves her, exactly.

It's one of the mums from the school dragging along her own wide-eyed child and carrying what seems to be a casserole of some description. It occurs to Gillian that she's never had a proper casserole before. No one in their family is really a maker of casseroles, which seems like kind of a shame now as the smells are wafting nearer. Thankfully, Sally is better equipped to attend to any visitors and dealing with company in a normal way, but Gillian can't help eavesdropping a little bit.

It's not what they say, however, but how Sally lets the other woman pat her on the shoulder and how the other woman sounds as if she is referring to Gillian herself as "your dear sister", no sarcasm that Gillian can detect. The little boy hiding behind his mum's skirts is as wife-eyed at the boy from before, and he doesn't make a sound, but he leaves in a daze of near-wonder, walking backwards as they leave, eyes lingering.

All in all, unhinged seems like a good reaction, as if all her joins are coming apart a little bit. Is this what doors feel like?

*

She wishes she could say it's business as usual the following days, but the feeling she's having of being displaced and falling apart at the seems just a little bit never quite leaves Gillian alone for long enough to enjoy a normal existence.

It most certainly does not help that the weirdness is getting more peculiar. She's half-way tempted to ask the Aunts about it or bring it up with Sally, but she's afraid it might just be all in her head. Lots of things have been taking up residence in there lately that she doesn't know what to do with, but, if she's learnt anything of late, it's that sorting out her own messes should come before putting the mess on someone else's metaphorical doorstep.

*

She goes out to buy bread every morning now. It serves as a social experiment of sorts. It also serves as a daily dose of strangeness that she had not been expecting to enjoy when this all started.

Gillian is pretty sure Halloween is still in October, but she's prone to stumbling across odd articles on the shelves at the store, things like broomsticks and pointy hats and candied apples. The undercurrent is not malicious as far as she can feel any undercurrent at all that is not curiosity and awe, both of which might just be coming from her to begin with. The kiddies of the Town also seem likely to pop up next to her at odd times, handing her things off the low shelves as if she's shorter than them and needs the help, or solicitously returning the shopping basket to its rightful place after she's put her groceries away. The cashier is still winking.

*

Sally knows something is up, of that Gillian is sure. If she knows one thing in life, that would be her sister. The only problem is that having a feeling of weirdness is not the same as knowing where it's coming from and why. Gillian definitely knows about that.

"Why are you acting so weird?" Sally's asking her— _her_ , Gillian, as if this is all Gillian's doing.

The girls are outside, presumably setting the table for lunch. It's soup and sandwiches, two of Gillian's favourites. She doesn't recall seeing anything around that might be considered desert, but the Aunts have a way of showing up with something chocolate-filled at the last minute.

"I am _not_ being weird. It's this Town that's all weird now!" Sally cracks a puzzled smile, and moves like she's about to leave the kitchen when Gillian has just gotten started. "The cashier keeps _winking_ at me! And not, like, in a sexy way, but like she knows a secret I know, too, and we're sharing that secret over bagging bread at seven a.m.!"

"You're screaming, you know," Sally says calmly from half-way up the stairs.

"That's because you're not listening to the words coming out of my mouth when they're at regular volume." Gillian knows this because she started hinting at the weirdness a few breakfasts ago, but Sally started talking about going for tea somewhere, or about someone's living room or something similar, _clearly_ not treating Gillian's carefully-observed facts with the seriousness they deserve.

"I am listening to you. I'm listening to you right now, just as I was listening to you at your regular volume, only with less ear bleeding," she finishes, turning abruptly in the middle of Gillian's bedroom, holding up a thin knitted cardigan. "I'm borrowing this."

Gillian waves off the cardigan. There are more important things going on here than clothes.

She quietly fumes as she follows Sally into the garden, who is now carrying a huge covered plate, presumably holding sandwiches. They're nearing the girls, which are setting up the table with more plates that they could reasonably need to eat lunch out of. They're all giggly and more excited than lunch usually warrants, but Gillian's gotten used to their little bursts of energy. They're little beacons of happiness that take up so much space and light in Gillian's life now that everything else pales by comparison.

Which might be why she doesn't immediately notice they have company.

Three of the mums from the school are standing in the most uncomfortable way any human could stand. They seem as if there's one swift wind away from toppling over at any given moment, but, in contrast, their hands seem suspiciously steady where they're each clutching a covered dish. Their offspring at running around somewhere in the background, Kylie and Antonia joining them in a game of what might just be very disorganised tag.

"Please, take any seat you like," Sally tells the women gathered there like leaves waiting to be plucked from a branch. Gillian watches as they comically drop into the three nearest chairs while simultaneously placing the dishes they brought on the table in front of them.

Gillian is in a daze for most of lunch. The Aunts come barging in to ladle soup from a cauldron, and only one of the women seems like she might be tempted to get up and leave the premises, but she visibly relaxes her shoulders and seems to be the one who most enjoys the soup out of the three. They eat some macaroni and cheese from one of the covered dishes afterwards, Sally heating it up with a well-focused flame the women can only gawk at in silence, but they all still have enough space for a sandwich each. One of the dishes has a chocolate and strawberry shortcake that's near magical, and Gillian should know. The last dish is a vegetable casserole they're all too full to partake in, but which the mum who brought it insists will hold nicely for supper.

To say that Gillian hardly remembers what most of the food tasted like is an understatement, although desert did wake up her taste buds pretty nicely by the end. It's all so very surreal, and the women dragging away their offspring after they've all had some strong after-lunch tea is what really snaps her out of it.

"Did that just really happen?" she asks the dish she's currently drying with a soft kitchen towel.

"You need to get out more," Sally says, before going back to washing a dainty little teacup.

*

The next day dawns the sunniest yet that week.

Gillian goes out to buy bread because toast doesn't make itself, or, if it does, she has yet to find the right spell for it.

They're out of pickles, and Gillian is craving some, so that goes in the shopping cart, too. She's likely forgetting something else that's essential that they're likely out of, but she can make another try that afternoon, or even after breakfast. The walk would do her good.

At the cash register the cashier winks after dropping Gillian's change in her palm. Gillian might be caffeine-deprived, and possibly still asleep, but this time she winks right back.


End file.
